{4:13 AM, Vitor’s physical therapy session inside Foyt’s pole barn}

Foyt: … 497 … 498 … 499 … annnnnnnd 500. At ease, Cynthia. Set ‘er down.

Vitor: [drops Cub Cadet 7500 backhoe]

Foyt: See there!?! And that doctor queer said you couldn’t squat-lift that thing once!! Hot damn, look at you NOW, queenie!!! You’re almost being a man!!

Vitor: [sprawled out on the floor, bleeding from the ears]  He didn’t say I couldn’t. He said I shouldn’t.

Foyt: Yeah, well — he said I shouldn’t be drinkin’ Valvoline-and-moonshines neither. So I punched him in the hamstring with a fencepost and threw him in the crick. That learned him — that learned him good. I swear, Princess … the whole world done gone soft. It all started with air-conditioning, I reckon. And then BOOM!! LOOKY HERE!!! We got seatbelt laws and hippies, and it’s a slippery slope right into Queerville from there.  [snatches a barn owl out of the air, eats it whole]  Next thing you know, some pencil-wang’d nerd’s tellin’ me what I can and cain’t drink! What’s next?!?! Someone gonna tell me racecars’ too dangerous?

Vitor: That’s what Robin Miller is saying.

Foyt: The hell you say!!! You best watch your tongue, Li’l Debbie. Miller’s good people, and I’ll beat you stupid with a hay tiller.

Vitor: [holding laptop]  No, boss. He says it right here. He’s talking about Chicago, and he says, “There’s no denying it’s riveting to watch and has no peers in the 4-wheel world in terms of showmanship. But that swarm of cars darting, sliding and trying to avoid each other in every corner also makes some of us want to look away.”

Foyt: Oh Sweet Mother Mary of Wilber Shaw the room’s spinnin’. Goddamn I gotta sit down.

Vitor: Get this. He says, “Personally, that inescapable pack racing scares the hell out of me because of the reality of what can happen.”

Foyt: THE REALITY?!?! I GOT YOUR REALITY RIGHT HERE!! IT’S CALLED A SPINAL COLUMN THAT’S ALL STEEL PINS AND DUCT-TAPE!! The reality is, sometimes you snap your back like a wishbone. And you know what you do!? You patch that shit up with some plumber’s putty and spit, you grab a whisky and a Pall Mall and you get your ass back out there!!! That’s what makes us badass racecar drivers!!! Except for you, Dutchess. It takes you years to get right. Probably because you’re French. But that ain’t here nor there — it ain’t important.

What IS important is that I feel like someone’s scrapin’ my guts out with a tampon. I cain’t feel my legs, and my left arm’s all tingly and cold. What else he say?

Vitor: He says, “Indy car racing should be challenging and dangerous, just not suicidal.”

Foyt: [collapses into a seizure]

Vitor: MEDIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!